Old Wounds
by Epona
Summary: It's October 6 in the Shire. Frodo's old wounds are acting up. Sam can help. Slash (Frodo/Sam).


DISCLAIMER: Obviously, I didn't write The Lord of the Rings. 

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I want to say a big thank you to Tim, for his encouragement and Beta reading, and to everyone who reviewed my other story – especially Lotesse – 'cause without you guys, this one would never have been written. 

* * *

If I narrow my eyes down to tiny slits, and lean forward as far as the desk will let me, I can just make out the shape of the sapling in my yard. I know, without needing to really see it, that its branches are achingly bare, its thin bark a meagre defense against the coming snow. I know the straightness of those young branches, and the sharpness of their points. I know because I've spent long hours staring at them from right here in my study. 

I should be able to see the tree. It is, in fact, only a few feet outside my window. But today is October 6th, and I'm feeling it in every inch of my body. 

My shoulder accounts for the worst of it. When I stay perfectly still, it's a dense ache, like it's being pressed hard from both sides at once; the slightest motion, and icy forks jab into it, stray tines spearing toward my heart. But the other ancient wounds are clamouring for attention, too - my right hand, with the missing finger; the faded whip-welts on my back, from that night in the tower of Cirith Ungol; the side of my neck, where Shelob sank her fangs into me. 

And my eyes are failing me, just like in those dark days after I was speared by the Nazgûl. I had a fine time finding my way to the breakfast table this morning, let me tell you, and a fine time explaining to Sam and Rosie why I only wanted tea. Somehow, I choked down a piece of toast, too - a miracle I can only attribute to my love of them. 

It's just that they've been so busy, both of them - Sam with his plans to re-plant all of the Shire, and Rosie with her pregnancy; I wouldn't want to trouble them with my illness. It would feel like an imposition - maybe even an act of ingratitude. 

So I sat with them at breakfast, trying my best to look normal. Luckily, Sam was so excited about the planting that lay ahead of him that he talked about it all through the meal, and barely questioned my lack of appetite. After that, I napped as much as I could without arousing suspicion, and made sure I was conveniently out of the house at mealtimes. (Usually this meant curling up in some berry bushes behind Bag End.) 

Now the day is almost through, and I'm propped up at my desk in the study, squinting out at that sapling, and thinking about the day, not so long ago really, when dear Sam planted it in the ground with loving hands. 

A sudden pressure on my arm jolts me back to myself. I turn and find myself staring down at - Sam, it must be Sam; I can smell grass, warm earth and pipe smoke. He's crouched beside me, his hand light on my arm. 

He says, "You look awful." 

My stomach twists. Guilt. 

"I'm all right, Sam." 

"You're not." I feel his fingertips light on my forehead, spreading gently outward to push back hair I hadn't realized was sticking to my face. His palm rests warm against my brow, sending chills flooding through me like forked lightning as my body remembers what heat is, and strives to generate some of its own. 

He must sense how wonderful his living hand feels to my cold skin, because his hand lingers, drifts slowly down my face, his calloused thumb smoothing over my temple, caressing my cheek, his fingertips tracing my jaw all the way down to my chin, and all I can do is sit with my mouth open in a silent gasp, drinking in the warmth. 

When his hand withdraws, I almost moan at the loss of that treasured contact. I feel naked and lost, my body alive with shivers. I strain to read Sam's expression through the spots. Briefly, he swims into focus, and I see that his eyes are dark with worry. His strong brow is furrowed, lips soft and solemn, his gaze searing into my eyes. Looking for something. 

"What's the matter, Mr. Frodo?" 

Sam's voice is quiet and serious, and he sounds for all the world like a tiny hobbit who's just been scolded by his gaffer. For a fleeting moment, I'm tempted to tell him everything - about the dreams, and how sick I feel most days, and how utterly alone even when in good company. Every morning I open my eyes expecting to see barren rock and filthy sky. And I'm trying to be here, and I'm trying to care about what goes on in Hobbiton, but none of this is real to me anymore. 

I force my facial muscles into a smile, surprised to find that I am near tears. "I am wounded," I whisper, not trusting myself to speak any louder. "Wounded. It will never really heal." 

His hands slip warm around mine - the right one, the one that hurts. He cradles it for a moment, the heat from his palms thawing my frozen fingers. Then he starts rubbing at my hand, trying to warm it up with friction. When his fingers brush against the stump of my third finger, pain flares bright, and I gasp. He freezes, and in the stillness I feel his eyes on me. I tell him that it's just a little tender, that it'll be all right in a moment. 

He doesn't say anything, and several breaths pass before he moves again. Then he shifts so that one of his strong hands is supporting my damaged one; his other begins stroking feather light over each of my fingers, one by one, delicately passing over each of my knuckles and out to my nails. He leaves the stump until last, and then, after a slight hesitation, he leans down and places the gentlest of kisses on the aberration that was once a finger. 

His lips are warm and achingly soft. At first I can hardly tell whether they're actually touching me. Then the heat pours stronger onto my wounded flesh, his silky lips pillowing against my finger, and as the warmth spreads, the pain recedes. I think I catch the tip of his tongue, wet and wonderful on my skin, but the sensation is gone too quickly for me to be sure. 

My heart is beating faster when he straightens up. He's kissed my hand before, but it's never been quite like that. I can just make out the ghost of a smile playing over his lips as he smoothes a hand over my cheek, then my forehead. 

"Better?" He sounds shy, embarrassed. I nod enthusiastically. Unfortunately, this aggravates my spider-stung neck; I suck in a breath, waiting for the pain to pass. 

"Where?" he asks softly. 

I hesitate. 

"My neck." 

His fingers are gentle on my throat, the callouses hard but smooth on my skin, like polished wood. His hand finds the part that hurts most - it just drifts there, like his hands can taste my pain - and flattens, his palm settling over the spot where Shelob's fangs sank into me, in her dark, dirty cave. Sam's warmth radiates into my neck, and I feel my heart rate pick up a little more, trying to catch up with his. Gradually, the ache begins to lift, and I sigh with relief. His thumb stirs at that, sliding up behind my ear. 

"How'd you hurt it?" 

Oh dear. Deep breath. 

"Sam, it's Shelob...." 

He stiffens. 

"Shelob?" 

I can't answer. 

He's gone quiet again. I fumble for his hand. He takes my cold fingers, starts stroking them absently. He's thinking. I wish I could see him properly. 

Finally, he seems to come to a decision. One hand stays wrapped warm around mine; with the other, he weaves his fingers into my hair, just at the base of my skull. He rises from his crouched position, leaning in close to me - and then his lips are hot on my neck, kissing so softly, and I can smell his hair, sweet like hay. And then - yes, there's no mistaking it - his tongue, warm and wet, is probing inquiringly at my sore neck. 

Oh my. 

My breaths are coming faster now. Sam is melting me with his mouth. I think I moan. His fingers twitch in my hair. He starts to suck at my neck - gently, gently. No one has ever done this to me before. Certainly not Sam! So strange - so beautiful - my heart is pounding - 

And then it hits me: he's trying to suck Shelob's poison out of me. 

Sensory overload. Emotional overload. My head is spinning. For a moment, his hand on the back of my head is all that's keeping me from sagging low in the chair, sliding bonelessly to the ground. 

I never knew he felt like this. I never knew he could do this. I never knew how badly I needed an ally, to help me through this. My dear Sam.... But something's not right, something's bothering me.... 

Of course! What about - 

"Rosie...." 

He stops what he's doing; his mouth leaves my neck cruelly exposed to the breeze as he turns to glance at the door. 

He's misunderstood me. It's a question. 

With a sigh, he crouches back down before me, rests one hand lightly on my knee, and takes a deep breath. "Rosie an' me, we've talked things over," he tells me. "From the beginnin'- that is, when we started up together, she and I - she knew that a part of me would always belong to you, Mr. Frodo, just like another part of me will always belong to her.... So if she were to walk in here right now, she wouldn't see anythin' she wasn't expectin' or approvin' of - d'you see?" 

This is all happening so fast - my skin is chilled where it's wet, and I'm shivering, and confused, and overwhelmed - but more than anything else, I'm relieved. 

This time, my smile is real, though I can feel hot tears sliding down my face. 

"Oh... don't cry, Mr. Frodo... we don't have to... I only meant... I'm sorry, I'll stop." 

"No." I clutch desperately at his hand. "Please don't." 

It's what he wanted to hear. He rises and pulls me into a big warm bear hug. My shoulder shrieks in protest, icicles jabbing into my flesh, but I manage to keep quiet and nestle against Sam, burying my face in his neck, wrapping my unhurt arm as far around his back as it will go. He holds me for awhile, his chest pumping heat into my frail body, his hands soothing over my back - I don't think he knows it, but his hands are like balm on my whip welts. I close my eyes and try to lose myself in him. 

When he eventually releases me, I'm almost warm, and body isn't aching nearly so badly anymore. The tears have exhausted me, though, and now I'm trembling faintly with the effort of remaining upright in my chair, and with the prickling, pinching pain that's intensifying in my shoulder. 

"You're looking worse by the minute," Sam murmurs. Concern makes his voice sound a little tighter, a little higher. "We'd best be gettin' you off to bed. Can you walk?" 

I nod dumbly. He backs off and I haul myself unsteadily to my feet. Multi-coloured spots swim across my field of vision, blotting out what was left of my eyesight, and I just stand there, blind and thoroughly nauseated, trying to blink away the spots. The next thing I know, I'm helpless in Sam's arms, pressed against his warm body, and we're moving - he's walking, he's carrying me - I must have blacked out - I feel so strange, and I moan against his neck, and he murmurs something unintelligible but comforting, which vibrates richly through his chest. We pass through a doorway and he stops walking, mercifully, and then he's putting me down, laying me on my bed, and pulling the comforter up over me. 

"There, now," he says, bending over me and running a hand through my hair. "That's more 'n enough excitement for one day." 

"Wait," I croak. I can't bear the thought of being left alone. My shoulder hurts so much, and I don't know what to do. 

I feel the mattress sink as he settles onto it, sitting down beside me. The simple fact of his weight, his strong physical presence, is terribly reassuring. 

"Please, Sam... my shoulder...." 

He doesn't need to ask which one. I think he understands now. 

He takes the covers down to my waist, then lays both of his hands over my throbbing shoulder. I can feel their warmth even through my shirt. I close my eyes, concentrating on that heat and trying to forget the hurt. But it's no use - this old wound is the epicentre of all the pain I've endured today, and it won't be healed so easily. 

I open my eyes and stare up at the shadowy ceiling. If only I could escape my body altogether. Just let my heart slow down a little further, and then a little further after that. It would be colder, yes, but not for too long, and then I'd be gone from here - no more aching, no more acting, no more Shire... 

...No more Sam. 

No. I can do this. I can hold on, for Sam. 

His hands leave my shoulder, and he starts to unbutton my shirt. He undoes it all the way, then spreads it wide open, exposing my skin to the cold air. A tremor runs through me, and he pulls the blanket part way back up, to cover my stomach. Then he starts delicately touching my shoulder with his work-roughened hands. He's being very gentle, but the whole area is sore, and I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out. 

"Poor thing," he murmurs. "Try to relax...." 

His hands slide outward, until one is on my upper arm and the other is on my chest, and then he starts massaging, his fingers working in slow circles. I breathe deeply, letting my muscles turn to jelly under Sam's skilled hands. As the tension ebbs, he starts kneading his way back toward my shoulder, very gradually, and this time, when he touches the skin around my scar, it hardly hurts at all. 

He ducks his head, and I feel his breath rushing hot across my skin, then a ghastly chill as he inhales. My skin puckers into gooseflesh as the heated air comes and goes. Then his lips are fluttering over me, soft as butterflies' wings. My right hand rises, finds his shoulder blade, and settles there. His lips pass lightly over my old wound, and I tense up, my fingers digging involuntarily into Sam's back. He pulls away, and I self-consciously relax my fingers so I don't hurt him. Then he leans down close to me again, and with his mouth next to my ear, he whispers, "Trust me." He plants a tender kiss on my forehead, then turns his attention back to my shoulder. 

His tongue is warm and rough on the scar - I can feel each individual taste bud scraping across my tender skin. I grit my teeth, squeeze my eyes shut - it hurts like nothing else - I'm squirming, I can't help it, and shivering with Sam's heat - and then the pain begins to lift, like steam rising from a kettle - just wisping at first, then pouring off in great white clouds. Sam's tongue traces the line where the cold blade entered into me two years ago, again and again, re-inscribing it with love, until the kettle has boiled itself dry, and I've stopped shaking, and my heart is beating strong and fast, and blood is singing through my veins to heat my whole body. 

I take Sam's face in both my hands - yes, I can use them both now - and pull him close - and I still can't see, but I don't care, I don't care - my lips find his in the dark, and our mouths lock together, and he tastes like sunlight on tree bark. Suddenly I'm wondering why we have never done this before, when we were young and untroubled by the fate of the world, or perhaps later on, during those long, dark weeks when we journeyed alone together to hell and back. But there are good reasons why it couldn't have worked then, why it wasn't quite right until now. And maybe that's worth what I went through to get here. 

Above me, Sam breaks the kiss with gentle firmness, and sighs so happily that I can't help but smile at the sound. Then he leans down and kisses each of my eyelids in turn - did he know...? - and when I open them, I find that my vision has been restored. It really is dark! Night has fallen, and the only light in the room is spilling in from the hallway. The way the light touches Sam, it looks like he's glowing. His eyes shine bright, and his cheeks are flushed with health, and his sandy curls have caught fire. He is beautiful. 

I say, "I love you, Samwise Gamgee." 

His pink lips curve up at that, and his eyes get brighter. He ducks his head shyly. "I love you, too." He's blushing furiously. It suits him. 

"Then lie down, and rest with me for awhile." 

And he does. 

And we don't rest until much later. 


End file.
